Fobidden Castle
by UnknownPaws
Summary: After losing their way in an unknown sinister glen, twelve nations stumble upon an old, unchartered castle standing in the centre of the forest. Inside lies twisted horrors and terrors, and soon they are more lost than they think. Will they ever escape?
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING. This was something I came up with after listening to a creepy soundtrack. Halloween is just around the corner, so I figured "Why not try my hand at something with horror?". The main character for this fic will be Alfred/America, as well as another, but that one will be revealed in time ;) Not too sure how that is going to work, but hey, that's the fun in trying, isn't it? So sit back and enjoy, and a Happy Halloween! ~UnknownPaws Slightly AU for the Kingdom Hearts bit.

The woods were dark and desolate, or so it would seem. For what else would you find in an old glen of dead and dying trees, bone-chilling and a silence so deep you could hear a pin drop for a thousand miles. Forever clouded skies, so dark you could never see light or day. Always cold, a maze of winding paths and endless trails; sometimes, even some that just disappear entirely.

Would it be a surprise, to say the least, that were you to turn left, right, back, straight, and completely northwest, you would come across a giant of a castle standing in the middle of the forest?

An old fortress in appearance, built from cobblestone and other rock, looking to be over a thousand years old. Ivy grows up the sides, the vast towers and walls of the unknown fortress, creeping and curling vines sneaking in and over rock crevasses and cracks. A crow cawed, cackling laughter, swooping in overhead, landing on the iron perch at the top of the tallest tower, lying somewhere in the midst of twisting mazes, caverns, dungeons and corridors.

From behind a grisly, dirty framed window, a single cerulean eye peers out at the surrounding area, the other hidden behind a fringe of long, trailing bangs. A figure of smallish stature, he eyed the bird dully from his stance at the window, reaching out with a slender finger to tap thinly at the glass. The old pane swung out with a rusted creak, the bird squawking indignantly, staring haphazardly at the open sill.

Spreading glossy black wings, it fluttered off the metal rail, gliding perfectly onto the offered outstretched arm. Talons sank through the thick, water-like ebony fabric, yet not deep enough to break through the pale skin hidden underneath. A black gloved hand stroked its head, earning a contented croon from the bird's throat.

Slowly, the holder brought the animal in, a wave of the hand stirring up an unknown force of wind in pulling the window shut. Striding over to an old antique oak desk, the holding arm was raised, the crow jumping from limb to a branch seemingly growing out the side. Sliding into a rickety chair, the emotionless creature snapped his fingers, a small flickering flame ignited upon the wicks of three half-melted candles. The orange glow softly bathed the desktop in a weak light, shadows crawling and spilling long puddles of darkness. Cold cerulean scanned over the surface, the empty gaze landing upon a dusted drawer on the front side. Loosely grasping the knob, the wooden casement gave way to reveal a peculiar series of artifacts.

A glass ball, smoke clouding about inside, a bottle or two of murky goo, a set of cards of curious blue and shape, and a couple of keys shaped in the most strange symbol imaginable to mind.

In the center of the clutter, a large tome of thick durability, dull grey with a metallic spine. On the front, the symbol of the keys, three intertwined, lay puzzling and mind boggling. A sinister aura befell him, the right hand slowly pulling the battered, worn book from its resting place. The left hand fingered a bottle of charcoal ink, sitting below the branch perch. The crow atop squalled, ruffling its body, a single black feather floated innocently down. Setting the large book down, he absentmindedly grabbed the quill, licking the tip in a form of self-comfort. Dipping the end into the vial of night's tears ink, he flipped the old twelve-year old hardcover, to the first page of yellow parchment.

Eyelids blinking slowly for a second, he lowered the feather to paper, a drop of ebony sinking into the page. He moved his hand ever-so-slightly, and the first line was drawn. The words would be written, and it would start slow, and steady.

He could sense it in his veins, empty blood flowing to a heart that was never there. He'd hidden away well, kept invisible from prying eyes and unfriendly company. From this he found a place of solitude. His sanctuary, one might presume. A castle of unknown location and existence – something that once was, now an old ruin of stone and forgotten memory. He'd hidden himself here well, from foe and ally alike. He had none of the latter and many of the former. So aggravatingly enough to become a hazard to his well-being; not like he had any to begin with, but he digressed, he was – what was it called? It had been so long now – happy with where he was. Unbothered for four years, even longer now that he'd thought about it; he'd let go of time many a decades ago.

The castle ghosts were kind and quite civilized, if you had the choice of crossing there good side; they could be quite unpleasant to any other. Ah, but he understood them more than he could mention, in fact he hardly had the chance to be lonely and alone. Quite welled mannered himself, he was pleased to come across such decent company.

The cats were a formable party as well, arriving in the perfect moment, if one would excuse the rather dry pun. Always the ones for news and tidbits, he listened to their whispers in his ear, the little tales and rumors that would fly about in gossip and passage of message. They roamed the grounds constantly, always coming across something new of interest. Plus, they kept the mice under control.

He stopped, quill empty of ink, the first of many words lined across the top of the page.

"What is seen is not really seen"

He knew the meaning so well, stamped across his mind like a blindfold to eyes.

Speaking of which…

He froze, standing up so suddenly, the crow was shaken from rest with an alarmed cry. A dark looked scoured his face. The perimeter! Someone had broken it! Dared to enter the forbidden land, his territory of solitude and security – they would pay for their interference and ignorance!

He'd never let himself lose his guard again, not when it had cost him everything he once had. Even his own life, almost – pure luck had gotten him through that mess no doubt. Reaching his arm, he felt the crow land softly on the edge of his wrist, wings fluttering impatiently. Walking to the window, he pushed the pane open, stuck his arm outside, watching as the crow took off into flight. He stood silently, arm falling back to his side. Eyes traveled to the bird, locked on in sight as the black creature soared up into the sky and away.

Soon, it will all come together, and begin in a twisted, unpredictable storyline.


	2. Lost in the Woods

Worry furrowed his brow; he wasn't sure what was worse at the precise moment.

The fact that they were in three feet of mud…

Or the nagging fear that they were most definitely, undeniably lost in this forsaken woodland. Something a certain party member refused to acknowledge indefinitely.

"Hell no! We are so not lost! The hero proclaims it, and if the hero says so, it is so!"

"Bugger! Bollocks to that and all! Your intellect and unruly sense of direction almost make up for your undying stupidity and stubbornness!"

"Porqua? 'Stubbornness', mon cher? Are tu so certain, tu is not mistaking l'Amerique for yourzelf?"

"Shut the hell up, wanker! I don't need your input, and further more, stop changing the language of every other word in a sentence, it's driving me mad!"

A scoff of disproval.

"Hah! I'll do whatever it iz I am pleased to do, in whatever fashion I wish, tu imbecile!"

"BLOODY FROG!"

The furious man, a British blonde gent of scraggly hair and emerald gaze, lunged at the other, a romancing Frenchman with blonde wavy locks and clear blue irises, tearing at him in the form similar to one of savagery.

The Frenchman, unimpressed, merely yawned in mockery, shoving the fellow blonde of his horse – a black Shire draft – into the awaiting puddle of filth and dirt below. The man cursed and swore like a daft sailor, beyond furious at the mud and grime on his clothes, hair and peachy skin. His horse snorted, almost in amusement. Suddenly, the youth – so he appeared – glared at an empty space beside his presence.

"No, Buttercup, I did not start it…What do you mean, 'yes you did'? I most certainly did not, and I do not appreciate you siding with that pompous flirtation of a man! ...No, I am not sounding like a whining child; I am simply desperate to prove my point! Why-"

The entire party, including the vacant horse, back away a considerable distance in a wake of fear and nervousness. Surely, this had not been the first occurrence of their fellow friend's odd behaviour; nonetheless, it still very much frightened them to come across his – what they presumed – other personality.

Leaving the seemingly insane, and slightly delusional male to his own little world of utter madness, the Frenchman turned headways to the third blonde, the source of the start of argument. A younger sky-blue eyed American man, just passed over his first adult year, hair of wheat, short, a strand so known as "Nantucket" defying the very laws of gravity.

"Ah… I really do not zhink we should try to aggravate poor Arthur anymore, petit. He will loze whatever gray matter he has left in that bemused head of 'is…"

The listener, who had not been listening at all – least not properly, snapped out of a feathered dream of grilled beef, whole wheat, tomato excess, and other vital importance, to exclaim in a much-too-vocal tone, "What? Iggy's gone insane?"

Sad to say, object of conversation overheard.

"I AM NOT INSANE, YOU FLIPPING WANK!" came the audible scream a few feet in the distance.

Half of the men sniggered, the rest more successful in covering their tracks. Yet the glare sent in the same direction was more than needed to silence their voices. The sour tempered Brit trudged through the mud, grumbling and spitting every inch of the way. His horse – Alice, he'd so fondly named, after a night of heavy whiskey and rum – eyed him in disproval. Unwilling, she was, to let such a mess climb aboard her back; but alas, a loyal horse she was, and disgruntled, she allowed the man to sit along her firm backside.

Trotting up alongside the rest, Arthur Kirkland, cleared his throat.

"Now gents," he voiced, keen on gathering every ounce of their attention, "considering the current circumstances, I believe it is in fair faith that we are accustomed to label ourselves as-"

"Completely lost, right da-ze?"

The British gentleman scowled, irritably flashing the new speaker an expression reading utter displeasure of interruption. The new voice, a hardy Korean boy of teenage years, hair of dark chestnut, a single strand sticking out the side, eyes of bronze. He folded his arms across his chest, the bay Cheju horse upon which he rode shaking its rust coloured mane.

"Well, it's true; am I not precise?" he continued.

It was painfully obvious that he was just flat out bored and tired – not to mention impatient with a side of annoyed.

They all were, ever one of the fourteen men on horseback – stranded out in the middle of this desolate and unkind forest.

"Yes, as Yong Soo so generously put," he emphasized sarcastically, " thanks to brainless over there, were are now standing in the middle of a dead wood labyrinth, with little to no food, water, supplies, and only our horses to guide us. Furthermore, congratulations to Lovino for landing us in this beautifully crafted puddle of muck, rotting leaves, twigs, and animal carcasses. A jolly good job, old chap!"

"Your welcome, idiot" snarled the offender, a foul tempered brown-eyed man of Italian blood, dark copper hair with a strand similar – if more of an actual curl – to Yong Soo's, hoisting up in the air by the bangs. "Of course I didn't know where I was going! I don't fucking live here, idiot! I refused, but alas you are such a-"

"Ah, now, now Lovino! Let us no use such a profound tongue, hm?"

A tanned, dark-cocoa haired Spaniard of olive gaze rode next to the Italian's inky Tolfetano, his own gray Marismeno keeping in happy stride. The beam of his face was a sun of warm, happy and cheerful. Yet, the other differed, huffing irritably. To him, nothing but an old fool of a fatherly friend.

"Why must tu place ze blame anywhere but upon yourzelf? It was by your deviation that we had zo aimlessly wandered into thiz absolutely dreadful and most depressing forest-"

"Hellhole."

"Same thing."

Arthur went crimson.

"Excuse me? Are you trying to imply that everything is my fault, frog?"

"Non, non, I waz stating that tu are dead in the brain and the primary source of ze problem"

"WHY YOU-!"

So once more did he throw himself from his horse, dragging the aggravating blonde Frenchman with him. Mud splattered everywhere, to the disgust of others, the horses most especially – how they wound up with these blaggards for riders would forever remain a mystery.

The American youth gawked, boggled over how two people could fight so much within only five minutes.

"Arthur, Papa, please! Not here…"

From beside him came a quiet, barely whispering voice sitting atop a black stallion. A young man, in resemblance to the American, French hair of blonde strawberry, worry clouding orchid eyes.

The American patted the slumping shoulder.

"Don't bother, Matt. They were bound to snap the moment we fell into that bog a few miles back."

He jerked his thumb to the right, a path of broken twigs in line of sight.

"Granted, we probably should have stuck to the main path…"

"Instead of veering off…" the other nodded reluctantly, the curl – a strand of hair not so similar, but still so nonetheless than the rest - bouncing to and fro.

"Oh yeah. That's what we get for putting Arthur in charge, bro."

A loud yell came from below Mathew's steed.

"Dammit! I heard that, you insolent brat!"

"What? Sorry, I could not hear over that obscene racket!"

"Alfred…" his brother warned.

"What? He's been in a pisser mood all day!"

"Ah, Alfred-san, I would heed your brother's words…"

Up to Mathew came a chestnut mare, her rider carrying an air of formality. The man, Japanese, studied the raging brawl through unreadable dark chocolate eyes, hair short and jet black.

Alfred sniffed mildly.

"Kiku, its fine. I have full control over the situation!"

"Oh really?"

Blue narrowed in a form of visual annoyance, head turned left to the newcomer striding up the path upon a black-and-white Ban'ei. Unlike the rest, he coolly ignored the childish spat on the ground, regarding the American man sitting on the rather put off Appaloosa.

"Who asked you?" Alfred snarled, his pride feeling threatened.

Also ignoring the elaborate face palming brother to his right.

"Common sense and knowledge" the Ban'ei rider, a Chinese man with dark chestnut hair – long, tied back into a short ponytail – and striking gold eyes, said.

Truly, though he looked so young, carried an air of ancient wisdom and vast age.

Alfred huffed, an invisible cloud of steam rising from his scalp.

"I'll have you know-"

"That you're brainless?"

"No! I happen to be most intelligent person in this group, if you do not mind!"

"Great. We're lead by an idiot. Now we're really screwed."

"Who keeps talking? Surely it isn't you?"

"Dumbass. You've been staring at my face the entire time, I think it would be obvious whether or not my mouth is closed, in which case it is – was !~aru"

"Kesesese~"

"Oh wonderful, it's you…"

"What? Do I, in all my extreme awesomeness, detect a hint of disappointment?"

'Not a hint, a full casement!" he spat at the man, a pale albino of Prussian blood on an equally albino stallion, expression twisted into a foul smirk of amusement.

"My, my, snippy are we?"

"Who are you labelling as 'snippy'? Wretched pervert!"

"Mindless buffoon!"

"Pain-in-the-arse!"

"You are all brain dead and stupid, so intensely I can already see your stupid little head imploding in a mess of blood and grey matter…"

"Aw, crap! Where the hell did he come from? For sure, I'd been certain we lost back in the bog!"

"Excuse, my dimwitted friend, are you implying that I am most unwelcome here?"

He snorted.

"You could say that. Oh, and it only took you five days to notice, very well done!"

He pretended to go deaf against the very agitated growls pouring from the giant's mouth. The Russian, a platinum blonde of haunting icy purple eyes, was easily the tallest of the bunch, standing a good head or so above the rest, even when sitting atop his stormy Russian Don.

A prick of the neck electrified his nerves, a sting relevant to a wasp – a very any hornet to say in the least.

"Dude, get your fricking fingers off my spine!" he snarled to the Russian, a glare of equal dislike fire back in his face.

"Kolkolkol…watch your tongue, Amerika, lest I tear out of your sour mouth!"

"Watch yours, Ivan! Get off of me!" he squirmed like a fidgeting puppy in the arms of a stranger.

Ivan relented none, semi-enjoying the sight of the younger man withering helplessly in his grasp. That would teach the high-strung pest to mouth off in front of him. Only when Aflred did sputter curses and swears of all colours – oh, how he laughed at the sound – did a new voice scream out in utmost fury.

"EVERYBODY, SHUT UP AND FREEZE!"

Dead silence, the horses even obeying command in fear.

Alfred stopped struggling, Ivan still keeping hold.

Arthur and Francis paused in their scuffle, the former pinning the latter down by the collar.

Mathew looked on nervously, Kiku following the same suit.

Yao, Yong Soo, and Antonio pulled a look of surprise.

Gilbert and Lovino could've cared less, the Italian swearing under his breath.

A tall, stern blonde glared daggers at the group, icy blue cold as his stare, a Germanic accent lacing his voice.

"WE HAVE BEEN STUCK IN ZIS DAMN FOREST FOR HELL KNOWS HOW LONG, AND NONE OF YOU ARE MAKING IT ANY EASIER BY FIGHTENING, ARGUING, AND VHINING LIKE CHILDREN! NOW SHUT UP AND SCREW YOUR HEADS BACK ONTO YOUR NIMBLE NECKS BEFORE I DO IT FOR YOU!" he bellowed, the very branches above him quivering in fear.

Panting, he eyed the men slowly and dangerously, daring any to oppose his word. A slightly shaking hand rose into the air, hesitating in a sense. With a battery charge of energy, he pointed to the left.

"Yes, Italy! What says you?" he called out, the only man who had been in silence the entire time.

"Zzzzz…."

Eyes twitched, jaws dropped like sand bags, and somewhere in the very back, a certain brother was smashing his face upon the neck of his increasingly annoyed horse.

Atop a primed chestnut mare, hand still raised, a happy-go-lucky, copper-locked Italian snored unbothered, eyes of honey closed in bliss oblivion to the chaos around – and the single curl bouncing about freely.

"Veee~…."

Night blanketed over the group like paint on water, shrouding over in a pitch black darkness. Long forgotten was the earlier squabble in the mud puddle, though irritation still vaguely rang out in doses. Silently, the group trudged aimlessly about the forest, bone-tired and dry-throated. Not to mention starving to the core.

A breeze blew past, sending unnatural chills icing through the veins of even the bravest man. In any case, who happen to be a certain oblivious Italian, still sleeping atop his horse like a comatose patient. He snuffled only twice, pulling his coat tighter as the chill struck at his heart.

The silence, so thick and still, ebbed eerily – you could hear every single one of the twelve hearts pounding restlessly against their ribs.

Yong Soo swallowed, urging his horse up next to Alfred's. The American was in no better of a state, trembling in his saddle like a loose leaf on an autumn branch.

"I-I don't like this…" he whispered to the taller blonde, looking about nervously – as though he expected something to anything to come flying out of the darkness.

"Yeah… I-It's too quiet…" Alfred agreed, uncomfortable in the veiling darkness.

He couldn't see anything in front of them; hell, he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face.

But he could still hear, smell, and touch – and right at that moment, he could feel and hear Yong Soo shaking on his own pony.

"I don't like this, I don't like this at all!"

"I know, same here, man…"

He reached over to pat the other on the back, only to feel something else instead. He froze, a low growling groan echoing across the area. He swallowed, a lump all but clogging his throat. A glance behind, fruitless as it may be – thorough inky blackness clouded his vision – yet provided him a unsightly catch of filthy, dirt covered skin.

His mind froze and glazed over, icing in a frenzy of crazed panic and wrenching terror.

"ZOMBIE!" he screamed, loud enough to send a vibration scattering into the ground, his horse rearing up in fright.

Yong Soo yelled out with him, his own horse acting up from the sudden break in silence. In his mind, however, the animal had seen the thing, too. The zombie gave a muffled yell as Alfred shoved it away, the sound of a startled horse arising nearby. A chain reaction erupted within the group, riders yelling and screaming in the confused chaos, horses' instinctual flight or fight response taking action.

Alfred's mind was driven by fear and loss of common sense. Pushing and shoving, his hands gripping the reins as though life depended on it, he urged his horse through the swarming mass of people and hoofed animals. All around, screams of fright and horror tore relentlessly at his ear drums. Breaking free of the crowd, he bolted head on into the woods, traveling far off the path.

Behind him, far back in the mess of unsettlement, a furious voice shrieked.

"ALFRED! YOU BLOODY FOOL, THAT WASN'T A ZOMBIE, IT WAS ME! COME BACK, YOU IDIOT!"

But alas, the poor boy never did hear the sound of his former ex-brother, too far for Britain's voice to find. Fast on horseback, he sped through the thick clumps of trees, branch, root, and all, not a faint idea of where he was going. Or what he was even doing; the current state of his muddled mind erased any frail attempts of reasoning thought or sense. All he felt, all he knew, was fear. Fear of anything and everything around him.

So consumed by such terror, he was, he failed to notice the protruding root of diseased oak resting innocently on the path. Not had he the time to slow, or halt the speeding stallion in time.

The earth around him seemed to slow in a frozen frame of time, motion freezing and unfreezing like a poor quality video. The forest spun, turning upside down, the horse whinnying in pain as his legs gave out. His mind clicked and un-clicked over and over again, crashing down alongside him into the hard, broken ground. He saw his horse and him go flying, smashing into a dozen dry twigs and leaves.

Then his head hit the earth, and he knew nothing more.


End file.
